The Road to Home
by QueenOfCitrus
Summary: GinHitsu: Because wars end. Because love will conquer all. Finished. One-shot.


_**A/N: A little something to celebrate the end of exams. :)**_

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_The Road to Home_

The edge of the shovel hit the thick crust of soil for a hundredth time and Toushiro's sweat-covered fingers slid down the handle, making him grimace as the million tiny splinters scoured over his reopened cuts and blisters, only damaging them further. Pressing his mouth shut to retain any sounds of discomfort, he lifted the tool again, and drove it into the unyielding ground – one horrendous effort against the unrelenting power of the drought. There was almost no result. His hands shook, trying to go lax and forbid him from continuing with the torture, but he just squeezed harder, repeated the exercise, refused to bend. The shovel went up. Its tip gnawed at the rigid soil. His body cried out in agony again – his back, his neck, his arms, his palms and fingers, they all joined in the choir. When the pain became too much, he paused just enough to brush the moisture from his brows, and then he gripped the handle again, and returned back to work.

It was a little past noon. The sun way tilting away from its highest point, but the summer heat was not going to go down for another six or seven hours. Toushiro refused to think about that – as a matter of fact, he refused to think about anything. About everybody that had returned, and all those lost souls that hadn't. About the lists of names, the crinkly pages that contained nonsensical strings of syllables; about the sanitary manner in which someone had typed down the identity of those who had fallen. The number of the dead soared into millions – kids who had given their lives for a war they had never been meant to fight for. They were nothing but dust and ashes now.

Toushiro lifted the shovel and thrust it into the ground, harder, and this time a slightly bigger chunk of dried mud tore like a scab from the dead skin of the earth. Gin's name hadn't been in any of the lists – Toushiro had checked, and double checked, and triple checked in trepidation. Gin wasn't supposed to be dead. They said he wasn't. They said, they said, all that paper, all those_ names_, none of them was his.

But then there were so, so many unnamed. Men who had died too mangled, too lost, too far away to be recognized. He could've easily been one of them – his bones could be anywhere now, white, smooth remainders of the person they had once belonged to. Such a horrific thought, but who was to say it wasn't true? And, worse yet, what did any of it matter now? It was all done, over. At the end, what they had hadn't been strong enough after all. Toushiro hadn't even got to say a proper goodbye.

The world wasn't _built_ to be fair – so when would humanity learn? Stop striving towards it? Through the bitterness and anger, Toushiro felt his chest tighten, the anguish trying to pierce through the numbness, bring in some hope. _Hope_. Disgusting thing. It had no place here now that everybody had come back. The lost sons had found their way back to their mothers, the husbands had embraced their wives, and so many children had finally, finally met their dads. The war was over.

But Gin had not returned.

Toushiro's throat burned, but he couldn't tell whether it was thirst or something else hurting him – the hurt had become simply too permanent. When it was physical, at least he could say it was real, he could pinpoint, articulate, decide how to beat it. But how could one repair something that was missing? How could you mend a heart that you had sent away, but which had failed to come back to you even after all the letters and all the promises? _Lies_. Maybe blaming Gin would make it easier – maybe if he pretended he didn't care, one day he might finally believe it.

The Earth kept breaking under his slow, meticulous efforts. Tomorrow the soil would be as hard as rock again – he knew he needed to get as far and accomplish as much as he could today. Besides, if he wore himself out enough, maybe he wouldn't have to cry himself to sleep; maybe the gaping wound in his chest wouldn't keep killing him. Dig deeper, a little voice inside his head urged him. Dig _harder_.

Bury it. Bury it all.

Somewhere in the distance he heard steps approaching, but he didn't look up. Two pairs of feet, it had to be the doctor's boys' asking for the money he owed their dad for easing his grandma's pain when she was on her deathbed. He didn't know how long he would be able to put the payment off – he didn't have much left and it didn't look like there was any chance for his little garden to come back to life any time soon. He needed to figure something out. He just didn't have the strength to face it – to face just how bad it had all gone; how hopeless everything was.

"Toushiro," the sound of Ichigo's voice caught him off guard, but not enough to make him react. _What could he possibly want_, Toushiro though wearily, unsure he could pretend to care about anyone's presence at the took him a heart-beat too long to look up – a heartbeat that he would never forget. That moment. That second before you allow yourself to shatter, to unravel until there is nothing left but the salt, the salt of all the pain, and fear, and sheer shock.

The shovel hit the ground. There was no air left in the entire world.

"Oh my God," he choked out and his hand shot up to cover his mouth, to muffle a scream that was too powerful to ever become reality. "_Gin_."

Ichigo's smile was a little painful as he gripped the taller man's arm, steadied him. Gin clung to the carrot-top awkwardly, unnaturally, and the way he held his head bowed didn't make any sense at first. Then it made perfect sense. The bandage over his eyes was dirty and frayed around the edges – a piece of cloth awkwardly tied over the wounds to keep the rest of the world from staring. But the world was staring. The word was grotesquely fascinated.

And Gin was blind.

Toushiro staggered out of the rickety front gate, stumbled towards them, grappled with all might to stay upright, awake, alive. The soldier uniform smelled faintly of gunpowder as he threw himself at Gin's chest and grasped the back of the dirty jacket with both his bloodied fists, choking out his first sob, his first wheeze of disbelief. He felt Gin's whole body shudder at the contact and those large arms, so familiar, so loved and cherished, lifted to return the embrace slowly, with something Toushiro didn't immediately recognize. Until there it was, right there in the stuttering racing of the heart against the smaller male's cheek. Raw, bleeding fear. Uncertainty and readiness to recoiled. _Do you really still want me?_, Gin's heart whispered, and that hideous, unspoken question tore at Toushiro like no blade or bullet ever could. He clung tighter, he shook his head against, Gin's chest, and laughed, and cried, and most of all refused to let go. Somewhere in the distance, he felt Ichigo retrieve, felt Gin's fingers, detaching him, tracing blindly his face, his hair, his tears. Those were new hands - hands, rough from holding weapons. New skin. Scars, healed only halfway. Fears, still smouldering undefined, inhuman, under the surface of this restrained gratitude. Bit still, they were also the old hands. Those who had caressed and protected him so many times before.

"You're alive," Toushiro sobbed. He had never needed to say something as badly as he needed to say these words. Gin's mouth quivered and he pulled the boy back into his chest, kissing the top of Toushiro's hair. Gin was shaking, but there was no sound, and no attempt at explanation.

Everything else could wait.


End file.
